


Persephone in the Winter

by AvaRosier



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, and omg he's so hot, but that was Steve Bacic, yes the one she cut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> she doesn't dream of the spring anymore. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persephone in the Winter

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this Grounder in 'the quality of mercy', I named him 'Xav'. But when I set out to write this smutfic, that name started to annoy me so I changed it to Drago. It's a nod to Steve Bacic's roles in Andromeda fifteen years ago. (OMG how has it been that long?? But he's still as sexy as he was back then :)  
> NOTE: Apparently he now has a name, so I edited the fic to reflect this.

****

The fire crackles in the hearth, pinking her cheeks further and drying the moisture in her hair and on her skin. She’s covered in naught but a small blanket wrapped around her torso when her captor returns, frigid air blowing in behind him. Her nudity no longer makes her feel vulnerable; on the contrary, tonight it makes her feel strong.

He’s been to the lake for a bracing swim. Clarke can tell because his face is clean of the black smudges the tribes favor. She continues to stare up at him as he approaches, holding out an item in his hand.

“Here, I found this for you.” It’s a comb—an ancient one.

“You can do it for me,” she tells him, turning her face back towards the fire. He— ( _his name is Drago_ , she reminds herself) huffs with his usual amusement at her, but puts his things down against the wall and lowers himself until he’s sitting behind her, legs stretching out on either side of her own. Clarke clutches her forearms, braced as they are on top of her knees, and digs her toes into the concrete floor.

 

She doesn’t remember much of the girl she used to be.

 

Once, she had eaten rations off a tray and watched centuries-old football games with her father. Then she had gripped a blood-splattered tool in her hand while a man told her ‘ _who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things_ ’ as if that should comfort her. She’s so far from the stars, now. But then again, Clarke remembers, by the time the light they see has reached their retinas, those stars have long since burnt out and died.

Snow crunches underneath her boots nowadays and she dines on meals of venison with herbs and winter berries. She keeps thoughts of her friends and her family in the furthest reaches of her mind, where the ache won’t be too severe.

Caliban places the teeth of the comb on the crown of her head and pulls it gently backward. It scrapes along her skull, leaving multiple pinpricks of pleasure along her scalp. Clarke shivers then, and closes her eyes with a sigh. She knows where this thread may lead. Her nipples tingle as they tighten beneath the blanket and her cunt clenches around nothingness; the anticipation of _something_.

She is fairly certain this was not what Caliban had expected when he had volunteered to keep watch over her.  

( _“Why did you tell Anya you would look after me?”_

 _“You’re a healer, but you still fought. I respect that…and I understand.”_ )

 

He’s worked all the tangles out of her hair and the comb is placed on the floor with a soft click.  And then she is being borne back against a bare and hard chest. Clarke feels as if she’s floating in a daze, crossing the line like this. Corded arms wrap around her, holding her beneath her breasts. And that’s all he does.

That’s not enough. It’s just not enough and the violence of her emotions threaten to spill out from behind her tightly pursed lips. Something dark in her has been rattling around for weeks now. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s anger that none of her escape attempts had been successful, but it’s certainly also desire. And all those things feel the same right now.

In a bold move, she reaches up and tugs on the blanket until Caliban lifts his arms and the ends fly apart. There is a sharp inhalation that rocks against her back as her body is bared to his gaze. Not content to leave things up to his willpower, Clarke twists her head until she’s leveling him with a challenging stare. She doesn’t look away, not even to blink as he scrutinizes her intentions.

Finally, his hands touch her belly. The calluses scrape along her skin, making the muscles underneath twitch. Caliban doesn’t tease. She makes a happy vocalization when he cups her breasts, pushing them upwards and massaging them lightly before covering the nipples with the palm of his hands. Clarke squirms and presses her thighs more tightly together.

She wants this: to be filled by his cock, to strive against him roughly until all these emotions flood out of her body and bring with it complete oblivion.

Clarke pushes Caliban’s fingers away from where they had just begun to tease against the coarse, tawny hair on her pubic mound and stands up. Naked and wanting, she heads towards her small pallet in the corner. The chain that connects the manacle around her ankle to the wall jangles noisily in the small room as she kneels on the furs and waits for Caliban to come join her.

He gets to his feet, and she can see the desire on his face. Before coming over to her, however, he divests himself of the rest of his clothes. Clarke drinks in the sight of him, the lack of spare fat on his body, the honed strength, the heaviness of his erection. She’s already so wet, she’s imagining straddling his hips and riding him fast and hard.

Caliban has something else in his hand this time. Her heart leaps into her throat when she recognizes the implement. It’s the metal key to her manacle, and he has it unlocked and away from her ankle before she can shout out in protest.

“What did you do that for? What did you _do_ —“

And she hates the flash of sadness and pity in his dark eyes because she knows he can guess why she’s so upset. Clarke has tried to escape five times in the past two months. After the first time, Caliban had told every grounder in the tribe that only he was allowed to bring her back. And he did, sometimes kicking and biting. When she’s here, she does her job and helps the Grounders when they are sick or wounded. She even delivered a baby two weeks before. She wants to fuck him, to not be a confusing mass of desire and anxiety at every turn. But if the chains come off, then she is no longer a flight risk. She has accepted her fate.

Clarke is breathing heavily as Caliban carries her to his bed, vibrating with barely restrained violence. She’s deposited on the bed, on her hands and knees.  _Just do it_ , she begs him in her thoughts. She’s grateful he hasn’t tried to kiss her; she would probably bite him. But it’s not the head of his cock that she feels in between her legs.

His tongue slides in between the seam of her vulva, parting the lips and determinedly dipping downwards underneath her clitoral hood. Clarke forgets all about the ignominy of her position and lets out a barely audible moan that shatters the relative silence of the room. Encouraged, Caliban repeats the action, the wet caress of his tongue exploring along her inner lips until she bucks backwards against his chin, demanding without words. He jabs the point of his tongue against her clit once, then again, and again, and again.

Clarke rocks her hips in counterpoint to his rhythm, feeling the sharp bursts of pleasure coalesce into a black hole of need that tightens with every pass of his tongue. And then Caliban stops and moves his head away, placing a hand on her lower back and pushing her down into the furs with a shushing sound as if she were a nervous filly.

Humiliated, Clarke lets out an enraged yell and kicks back, her foot making contact with Caliban’s weaker knee. “Damn you!” She hisses. Before she can lash out again, she is lifted off the furs and roughly manhandled until she is flattened and his heavy, naked weight is pressed along the line of her back.

“Cease.” He growls against the whorl of her ear. Clarke shivers and stills. Caliban takes her hand, so much smaller than his and places it over the bundle of blankets that served as a pillow. “Put this under you.” He orders. Reflexively she clutches at the material as she realizes what he intends. She rushes to comply, wadding a blanket up and placing it in between her hips and the bedding beneath. Now that her bottom is raised into the air, Clarke sighs, lets her legs fall open, and braces her forearms on either side of her head.

Ready, waiting.

He slides in slowly, inexorably, and doesn't stop until his balls are nudging against her vulva. He starts gradually, rocking his hips back and forth as she clamps down around his cock, moaning softly from the delicious slide of friction. Her mouth hangs open and her hands flex around the furs, moving to clutch them as Caliban snaps his hips into her bottom. 

Clarke ceases to be quiet after that and she moves against him, groaning as the tension in her winds ever tighter. Yes, this is what she needs, Clarke thinks dimly. His rhythm stutters as he lowers himself until he's covering her back, brushing aside her hair to nip at the sensitive skin along the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

She turns into a shuddering mass of need, canting her hips wildly as she chases down the trigger of her orgasm. And then Caliban slides his hand under her belly and swipes his fingers over her clitoris. It seems every muscle in her body tenses and she whines lowly as she implodes around his cock. Clarke's heart pounds while the ripples of pleasure course through her body. She keeps her hips moving, keeps milking out every last spasm as her mind goes mercifully blank.

Eventually, she stills and relaxes completely against the furs, floating on a haze of brain chemicals. "Prolactin," she murmurs softly, "and acetylcholine and dopamine..." Caliban doesn't ask; he's used to her making these odd comments from time to time. It's not until he rolls her over and lowers himself back into the cradle of her thighs that Clarke realizes he's still hard. Caliban regards her for a moment, and she thinks she can see how strange she must appear to him reflected in his eyes. Then he dips his head lower, going slow enough that Clarke could turn her head if she so wished, to press a soft kiss against her lips.

She lets him.

"Again," he says as he lifts his head.  Her body feels so sated and quiescent, and a small thrill travels down her spine as Caliban lines himself back up and thrusts inside her. She tenses for just a few seconds and a breathy moan escapes her lips, then she relaxes and reaches up to curl her fingers around the bulging line of his triceps. 

There is no past or future here, she thinks as she encourages him closer, wanting another kiss. Only the present.


End file.
